by Tobias Wade
She was as alien to me as death. I didn’t even know if she could speak or understand. Her movements were erratic and unpredictable, her eyes darted like a caged animal, but we did have one thing in common which has bridged greater differences than ours: we both liked pizza, and when I offered her some, she smiled. The girl swiftly choked all three pieces down with savage gulps, although I was able to make out a few of her muttered words which she slipped in-between.
“Kevin (my Dad) won’t let me go.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to leave. He takes care of me.”
“He said he loves me. He promised to marry me when I turned 13.”
“Stay here in the kitchen, okay?” I said. I hope she didn’t notice the revulsion in my voice. I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I couldn’t believe any of this, and I didn’t know how to handle it alone. I wanted Dad to come and tell me it was all okay again, but if what she was saying was true…
I came back in five minutes with Mom instead. It was pretty tricky shaking her so that Dad didn’t wake too, but as soon as I mentioned the spirit she was out of bed in an instant. She said she never believed in that sort of thing, but the wild fear in her eyes made me think that was a lie. When we got back to the kitchen, the pale girl was still chugging through the soda which sprayed her face with foam.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” my mother roughly pushed me behind her. I pushed back.
“It’s okay Mom. She’s not going to hurt us. She needs our help.” I was beginning to regret telling Mom what the girl told me.
“I’m Sandy,” the pale girl said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Kevin’s wife, that’s who. The one you’re making up lies about.” Mom took an indignant step forward. I tried to hold her back, but she was livid. “You better tell me how you broke in, or I’m going to call the police.”
“I didn’t break in,” the pale girl stood from the table and faced us belligerently. “Kevin brought me here. He loves me.”
Maybe my Mom was angry because she thought the girl was lying, but I think it was because she was afraid Sandy was telling the truth. I should have tried harder to stop her, but I hadn’t expected her to snap like that and slap the girl across the face. Sandy’s head turned sharply from the blow, but then began turning back in small, jerky increments. I think my Mom was too angry to even notice the bones rearranging themselves in Sandy’s neck as it turned.
“You come into my house, steal food from my family, and make up these disgusting lies about my husband?”
Mom was usually the sweetest thing in the world, but she had a temper that sometimes took hours to wind down.
“Mom you’ve got to stop -“
“I don’t care if you do got nowhere else to go, where I’m from you got to ask before you take something.”
“Mom just look at her! Can’t you tell she isn’t normal?”
“Now who else you been telling this perverted trash to? Sweet Jesus, I want you out. Out of my house right this instant.”
“What’s all this noise down there?” My Dad thundered into the room. He froze mid-step as he instantly appraised the situation. “Dear God Kathy (my Mom), have you lost your mind?”
“My mind?” Mom screamed, turning to face Dad. “Don’t tell me you’re going to defend that creature in our house.”
“I only hear one of you yelling, and don’t you dare call Sandy a creature.”
I’ve never seen either of them so worked up. I think I was the only one who heard Sandy whispering.
“Is it true?” It wasn’t just the girl’s voice that wavered. Her whole body seemed to somehow glitch and distort like a corrupted video. “He married her? He lied to me?”
She looked absolutely heart broken. I couldn’t even begin to formulate a response.
“Tell me the truth,” Sandy insisted. “Does Kevin still love me?”
How was I supposed to know? I looked helplessly between Mom and Dad as they yelled at each other, and I was just stressed and overwhelmed and scared. The idea of my Dad being with this child almost made me sick. All I could tell is that she shouldn’t be here. I shook my head.
“No he doesn’t,” I said. “He loves my Mom. You should just go.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Sandy replied. “I’m going to get even now. Please don’t watch.”
Mom didn’t see it coming. The air was distorted with a pale blur, and before I could even open my mouth I saw thin white fingers tearing out my mother’s throat. Most of her neck was still intact, but the trachea was pulled straight out through the skin. I don’t think she suffered much on account of how quick it was, but that was a very small comfort.
Dad wasn’t so lucky. I thought he would have a chance to fight her off because of his size, but he didn’t even put up his arms to defend. He just stood there until the white fingers punched through his chest and ripped out his heart. There was a horrible moment where the heart was entirely out of the chest but still tethered by a network of veins and arteries, and I could see the strain on his face while she held it in her hand.
“I never forgot you,” were the last words he ever said.
Sandy distorted again, and then she was gone – fleeing back down the basement stairs and wailing like a little girl. I rushed over to my Dad, but he was already gone.
When the police swept the house later that night, they didn’t find anyone in the basement. They listened to my statement, but I didn’t see any of them writing it down and I don’t think they believed me. I was sobbing so incoherently, I wouldn’t have trusted my testimony either. I just know what I experienced and later, what I saw.
The police investigation did unearth a collection of photographs hidden in a shoebox in the basement. Sandy was in them – except that she glowed from happiness where she stood next to a young boy her own age. I recognized the boy as my father at once. The police didn’t investigate them or entertain it as a possibility, but I did some research of my own and found out that Dad used to live next door to a girl named Sandy Withers when he was growing up.
They had been best friends – more than best friends apparently, but she had died in a diabetic coma when she was 12 years old. Written in my Dad’s curved lettering on the back of one of the photographs was: “My future bride.”
I don’t know what happened to make her stay in the world, but it looks like my Dad never was able to let her go. It’s been three years now, and even though everyone has pressured me to sell the house and move, I’m still living here. I guess I wasn’t any good at letting go either, because I still practice the same tradition I have all my life. The only difference is that I now leave out three plates of food every night, and collect three clean dishes every morning.
My Face Will be the
Last Thing You See
Green eyes of a cat, and hair dark enough to make the shadows behind her look like they were glowing. I caught her staring at me over the rim of her wineglass across the room.
I did what most long-time single guys in my situation would do. I pulled out my phone, and started surfing through Reddit. That's right – play it cool. Make it look like you've got important stuff going on. Just pretend you're not interested in her, then keep up the illusion until she leaves and you die alone.
I really need a new strategy for meeting women.
I forced myself to peek at her again. She was still looking at me, and this time she smiled. I started to smile back, but remembered just in time how uneven my teeth are and tried to twist it into a mysterious expression instead. I was trying to channel Clark Gabel, but probably ended up closer to a constipated cookie monster. She interrupted my quiet self-loathing by beckoning me with her finger.
I looked over my shoulder. There wasn't anyone behind me but the barkeeper, and his back was turned. This had to be some kind of joke. I don't think of myself as particularly ugly – a bit doughy perhaps - but I never attracted attention from women like that. Hell, I did
n't even know women like that existed outside of airbrushed magazines.
I'd only been planning to stop off for a quick buzz after work. I don't drink ordinarily, but the shifts have been crazy since Peter died of a heart-attack last week, and I just needed to unwind. Her tantalizing invitation promised an even more enjoyable distraction though, and my feet moved on their own to treacherously thrust me into the booth beside her. I didn't fully realize what I was doing until it was too late to come up with a witty introduction.
"Uh hi. Can I help you with something?" Yeah. Real smooth. What are you, a waiter?
She extended a graceful hand with neatly polished nails the color of dried blood. Her skin was so pale and translucent that the blue veins were clearly visible meandering up her arm.
"Hello Eddy. Can I call you Eddy?"
You can call me anytime, my dumb brain thought. I didn't even realize she knew my name until I'd already shaken the chill hand she offered me.
"Do you know me?" I asked instead. Her limp fingers revived in my hand and gripped me firmly for a second as though holding on for dear life. The pressure was gone as quickly as it appeared though, and she released me before luxuriously leaning back.
"Not yet, but I have a way of getting to know people. Would you like me to get to know you, Eddy?"
I could imagine a snake whispering its prey to sleep with the same tone of voice. I felt definitively agitated sitting here, but I couldn't tell how much of it was fear and how much excitement. I don't suppose it mattered, because I was so engulfed in her presence that I was powerless to do anything but nod.
The woman produced two decks of playing cards and placed them upon the table. Her long fingers fanned through them with the dexterity a pianist, and I half-imagined a musical score rising up from inside me as she rapidly stacked and shuffled them together. One deck seemed to contain a multitude of human faces, while the other contained a variety of surreal paintings which resembled Tarot cards.
"You're not a Witch, are you?" I hadn't meant to blurt it out, but I had just seen my own face flash by on one of the cards and was becoming increasingly uncomfortable by the second.
"That's the wrong question to ask," she said, not even looking at the cards while she fluidly shuffled. "The weapon matters not compared to the intent of the wielder. I could kill you more easily with my switchblade than a Witch could with her magic, but do you really think I would hurt you?"
Her bluntness relieved me of my own burden for tact. I might as well be honest with her too.
"Yes. I think you would."
She grinned and slapped the combined deck down with enough force to make the whole table rattle. I nearly fell out of my seat from the shock.
"Good. It's the cautious one's who last the longest."
I wanted to question her further, but my attention was diverted by the cards which she began dealing. The first one she flipped from that jumbled pile depicted my face, with my name neatly handwritten below it.
"How did you do that? Where'd you even get that picture?"
Her lovely features furrowed with concentration. She didn't answer. Her hand caressed the deck with tremulous focus. She was about to draw the next card, but then gave me a wry smile and cut the deck to draw from the middle instead. Lying on the table beside my photograph was a skeleton, only its face was replaced with an exquisite painting of the woman sitting across from me. She let out a long breath like relief, but her warm smile couldn't dislodge the mounting horror in my chest.
"That wasn't so bad, now was it? Now we know each other a little better, don't we?"
"I don't know anything. I don't even know your name." I was starting to get angry. It wasn't just at her for messing with me like this – I was angry at myself. How pathetic I must be to keep entertaining this nonsense just because a pretty girl smiled at me. If it had been anyone else, I would have been out the door a long time ago.
"Oh don't be like that, it's actually good news," she said. "Your photograph obviously represents you –"
"I don't know how you got that, but I want it back." I tried snatching at it, but the card danced around her nimble fingers and evaded me.
"And you recognize my face on the other, don't you? That's the last thing you'll see before you die."
All the excitement was gone. My heart strained against my rib-cage with nothing but the absurd fear she instilled in me. I made another wild snatch for my photograph, but she tugged it just out of my grasp again. All I could reach was the rest of the deck still on the table, so I picked that up instead.
"You want these back?" I asked. "Give me my card."
"You aren't being very cautious right now." Her eyes narrowed with dangerous intent.
I looked down at the other cards in my hand. That's when I noticed that all the other photographs had a thin red line drawn through the center. There had to be at least twenty of them in here.
"They weren't being cautious either, and you don’t need my sight to guess what happened to them." The voice was as cold as the space between stars. I didn't even care about my photo anymore. I just wanted to get out. I didn't look back even when the bartender started shouting about my tab. All I could think about was putting as much distance as I could between myself and the woman tormenting me.
What in the world was that even about? I know I don't approach women very often, but I can't imagine that’s the typical reaction. As I jogged, the clean evening air unraveled the twisted knot in my stomach and began to purge the surreal experience from my mind. I slowed down to a walk, even chuckling to myself at the absurdity of what just happened.
A psychic, or a con-artist (not like there was a difference). That's what she had to be. She wasn't flirting or threatening – she was just trying to sell me her readings. I stopped by that bar all the time after work, so it wouldn't have been hard for her to snap a photo or get my name. Of course, she hadn't actually asked for money, but that was something I preferred not to dwell on.
I replayed the scenario in my head, and even congratulated myself with how I handled the situation. Good for me, for not falling victim to her seducing charms. Although there’s no denying the fantasy I still entertained of taking her and…
It wasn't until I got home and was digging for my keys that I felt the deck of playing cards still in my pocket. I'd been in such a rush to get out that I hadn't even noticed taking it with me. I fanned through the deck to make sure there weren't any more photos of me, but stopped abruptly short.
Peter.
He was wearing the suit I saw him wear every day for the last five years. The thin red line scored directly across his face. She couldn't have had anything to do with...
Just to be safe, I started Googling some of the other names captioned below the photographs. After the third search pulled up a third obituary, I knew there was no point in going on. 24 other cards beside my own, and all with a red line struck cleanly through the center. Every death was from a different cause, although I noticed several quotations of shock and despair from families swearing it came without warning.
I saw the woman again the next day. It was only a glimpse, but she was sitting at the bus-stop I usually took. I'd left her cards at home and didn't want a confrontation about it, so I just waited the 20 minutes for the next bus to come along.
There she was again at the taco shack I frequent for lunch. She was actually working behind the counter. She smiled when we locked eyes, but I immediately turned around and left without a word. The less I got involved in this lunacy, the better.
Then again at the grocery store. She was deliberating between brands of peanut butter. Again at the bus-stop, watching me get on. Twice more I saw her standing on different street corners on the drive home. I don't know how she was moving so quickly, but it was obvious that I was being stalked. I was being stupid for just pretending none of this happened. I had information linking a string of deaths, and I should have brought this to the police from the very beginning.
I should have known it wouldn't be any good. She was the officer on duty, just sitting behind her desk with hands folded patiently on the table. Not doing anything. Just waiting for me.
"I've got your cards. You can have them back," I said. I dropped the stack on her desk. She didn't take her eyes off me, not even when they scattered from impact. I half-turned to leave, but couldn't quite force myself to turn my back on her.
"I know you did something to the others," I spluttered to fill the gaping silence. "And I don't care, okay? About Peter or any of them. I don't want anything to do with it."
She didn't blink. Didn't move a muscle. I started backing up, almost making it to the door before she finally said:
"I'm following you for a reason, Eddy. If you walk out that door, then you will never see me again."
I hesitated. Was that a promise, or a threat?
"Okay. I'm okay with that," I said.
"Are you? Even knowing that my face will be the last thing you see before you die?"
It sounded more like a school teacher reminding me of a formula than it did a threat. That didn't stop the hairs from rising on my skin as she stood from the desk to approach me.
"How are you everywhere that I am?” I asked.
"What's more likely..." She was only a foot away now. My back was against the glass door, but every word was drawing her closer. "That I'm everywhere at the same time, or that you're stuck in one place and I'm there with you?"
“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you killing all these people?”
“I don’t kill anyone,” she said. “I simply warn them what is to come. I give them comfort in their dying moments. Those who go violently into their final sleep are doomed to nightmares, while those I help go softly can sleep in peace. I have seen the future, and know that my face is the last thing you will ever see.”